No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head:
O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damned incest.
But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glowworm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire:
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.

[Exit.

Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth!

What else?

And shall I couple hell? - O fie! -Hold, hold, my
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, [heart;
But bear me stiffly up! - Remember thee?
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe*. Remember thee?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven.
O most pernicious woman!
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
My tables, meet it is, I set it down,

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;

At least, I am sure, it may be so in Denmark.

[Writing.

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;
It is, Adieu, adieu! remember me.

ACT II.

OPHELIA'S DESCRIPTION OF HAMLET'S MAD ADDRESS

TO HER.

My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, and down-gyved* to his ancle;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;

And with a look so piteous in purport,
As if he had been loosed out of hell,

To speak of horrors, he comes before me.

Pol. Mad for thy love?

Oph.

But, truly, I do fear it.
Pol.

My lord, I do not know;

What said he?

Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;

Then goes he to the length of all his arm;
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face,
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so;
At last a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,--
He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound,
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk†,
And end his being: That done, he lets me go:
And, with his head over his shoulder turn'd,
He seem'd to find his way without his eyes:
For out o'doors he went without their helps,
And, to the last, bended their light on me.

* Hanging down like fetters.

Y

+ Body.

OLD AGE.

Beshrew my jealousy!

It seems it is as proper to our age

To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions,

As it is common for the younger sort

To lack discretion.

HAPPINESS CONSISTS IN OΡΙΝΙΟΝ.

Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison.

REFLECTIONS ON MAN.

I have of late (but, wherefore, I know not), lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises: and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a steril promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestiIent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling, you seem to say so.

HAMLET'S REFLECTIONS ON THE PLAYER AND

HIMSELF.

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Is it not monstrous, that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
That from her working, all his visage wann'd;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
For Hecuba!

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free;
Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
Yet I,

A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
Upon whose property, and most dear life,
A damn'd defeat* was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat,
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?
Ha!

Why, I should take it: for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal: Bloody, bawdy villain?
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless†

Why, what an ass am I? This is most brave; That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a cursing, like a very drab,

A scullion.

[have heard, Fie upon't! foh! About my brains! Humph! I That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul, that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players Play something like the murder of my father, Befcre mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him* to the quick; if he do blencht, I know my course. The spirit, that I have seen, May be a devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps, Out of my weakness, and my melancholy (As he is very potent with such spirits), Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds More relative than this: The play's the thing, Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

ACT III.

HYPOCRISY.

We are oft to blame in this,

[visage,

'Tis too much prov'd, -that, with devotion's

And pious action, we do sugar o'er

The devil himself.

King.

O, 'tis too true! how smart

A lash that speech doth give my conscience!

* Search his wounds. † Shrink, or start. Too frequent.